


Desert island in Siberia

by Beginte



Series: Work and Play [8]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Bond can't stop falling into bodies of water, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Q is a bamf at survival, Q saves the day, Sharing Body Heat, because this trope is a must, some snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-11 00:24:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7015021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beginte/pseuds/Beginte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Mmmm...” James shivers, curled up on his side, struggling to get his jaw muscles to unclench. “I mmm-might reconsider the body heat sh-shhh-sharing fantasy...”</i>
</p><p> <i>Of course those are the first words out of his mouth, and Q snorts, immeasurably relieved.</i></p><p>-</p><p>In which Bond falls into the Lena river in Siberia. Sharing body heat is the most effective way to warm someone up, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desert island in Siberia

**Author's Note:**

> This was actually supposed to be part of a 5+1 fic, but it suddenly ran away and decided to be a fic on its own, so here it is :) The 5+1 is still coming, though.
> 
> Thanks to the lovely [Castillon02](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02) for cheering me on, helping me out with the title, and generally being a delight.

* * *

Bond falls into the Lena river just outside of Yakutsk, on the barren, snow-swept wasteland of Siberia, and Q could just scream.

Because of course, _of course_ he had to fall into the bloody Lena river. He’s incapable of passing by a body of water without somehow tripping right into it, especially when there’s the prospect of damage to his equipment. He falls into the Lena when battling a hitman hired by their mark (a Russian diamond oligarch suitably doing seasonal business in Yakutsk), and Q’s heartbeat, frantic from the chase across snow and ice, stutters and yields for a moment when he doesn’t come up for air.

And then he does, with a loud gasp, water and bits of ice running down his head, and Q rushes towards him and pulls him out, feet sinking into the miry, half-frozen sludge.

Q may not be the weakling half the 00 agents used to take him for, but dragging fourteen stone of soaking wet 007 rendered borderline dead weight by the freezing cold across snow and lumpy ice, is quite beyond his normal abilities.

Still, he manages. Because he has to - it’s simple _,_ he has to because James needs him. So somehow, he manages, James barely moving his own legs as the life-extinguishing -23°C of Siberian riverside in March seeps into their bones. They trudge, breaths laboured into steam and feet wading through snow as Q tries to navigate for that abandoned cottage his recon tells him _should_ be near. The freezing cold already begins to coat James’ soaked clothes in a thin, translucent layer of ice which constantly sheds and crackles with their movements, and it stabs panic clear through Q’s chest.

James’ teeth are chattering, his breath barely pulled into his mouth between numb lips as he leans on Q, body stiff as if the frost is slowly clenching a tight fist around him, reaching inward and taking hold, and Q grits his teeth and tries to haul him faster.

The Lena is harsh and sprawls covetous over the land with no regard for anything or anyone, fending for itself in the wilderness, split raw and open by icebreakers and angry for it. They have to cross two frozen creeks along the main body of the river before the cottage even looms in sight, just by a copse of trees and safely remote from cities and settlements. Yakutsk seems to belong to another world, now.

Q kicks the door open, his own thick, winter jacket filled with frost now and only serving to keep it closer to his body, and he brings James to the lone bed in the room making up the entirety of the cottage, and tells him to strip. James tries to smirk, but his lips only barely twitch - still, so long as he can think of an innuendo, Q figures he’s fine.

There’s a supply of chopped logs stacked by the fireplace, courtesy of a lower-ranked agent stationed in the region and sent out beforehand to make the basic contingency preparations. Q throws the logs and a bunch of smaller twigs into the fireplace, splashes them generously with lighter fluid and throws in a lit match before heading to a small kitchen cramped into one corner of the cottage. Whatever water there is, it’s frozen, so he dashes outside, scoops some snow into a pot, gets back inside and puts it on the gas hob, turning it up to the maximum.

James is struggling with his clothes, his hands stiff with cold as he shivers, and Q helps him as fast as he can, but the water, part-turned into ice, makes it a difficult chore. Finally, James is naked, and Q wraps him in all the blankets he can find in the cottage.

“Talk to me,” he tells him, already beginning to shuck his own jacket, no matter how much his entire body protests against it.

“Mmmm...” James shivers, curled up on his side, struggling to get his jaw muscles to unclench. “I mmm-might reconsider the body heat sh-shhh-sharing fantasy...”

Of course those are the first words out of his mouth, and Q snorts, immeasurably relieved.

“It certainly is one of those things that will always be more fun in a controlled environment - when the heat goes out at home or something along those lines,” he agrees, his own body wracked with a graceless jolt of a shiver, his muscles stiffening in objection as he continues to strip.

“W-wwwe could always turn off the radiators wh-h-en we get back,” James suggests, his body bunched into a stiff ball under the blankets. Q arches an eyebrow.

“Why are you so keen to recreate life-threatening situations in domestic environment?”

“G-good exc-c-use to keep you in bed all day,” James manages a smile, his eyes fluttering closed for a long moment as a particularly strong shiver runs through his body, and Q gets under the cold blankets, into the cold bed, and presses up against him.

Bond is freezing, cold like an icicle, and Q bites back the worry and the instinct to coil back, plastering himself to his agent and trying to get as much skin-on-skin contact as possible.

“Don’t fall asleep on me, James,” he mutters determinedly and ferociously rubs his hands up and down James’ sides in attempts to stimulate circulation and warm up at least some flesh.

“‘m not, ‘m not,” Bond mumbles, but his eyes crack open only a bleary sliver and only for a moment before slipping closed again.

“ _James_ ,” Q hisses and slaps him on the arse, because he knows from experience this always gets him a reaction. (Though usually in a more palatable context.) “If you fall asleep on me now, I’ll kill you.”

“Y-you’re a great motivator,” well, as long as there’s snark, Q knows his heart is still beating. And the blue eyes are open again, which Q counts as a success, ta very much.

He can hear the water boiling in the pot, so he slips out of the bed, wrapping his jacket around himself quickly, and dashes to the kitchen corner. He finds a rather ancient box of teabags and pops one into a mug with a chipped-off handle, then does his best not to splash himself with scalding water as he pours some of it into the mug. The rest he pours into two empty glass bottles with metal caps and buries them in the blankets on the bed for warmth before setting the tea on the floor by the bed.

“Drink it as hot as you can possibly stand,” he tells James, then shucks his jacket and climbs back into the bed with him.

James does drink the hot tea, and Q covers him with his own body as much as he can and does his very best.

He hasn’t got that much to give - he’s lithe and gets chilly quite easily by nature - but he gives all he’s got now, wrapping himself around James and desperately wishing he were warmer. James makes a small, oddly vulnerable sound in the back of his throat, one cold hand moving over Q’s and gently squeezing. It makes Q hold him a little bit tighter, pressing his lips against chilled skin for a moment.

The cottage is tiny, so he hopes that with a steady supply of logs the fire will warm it relatively quickly, and the tea will work from the inside, and James will thaw out soon enough.

Sleep hovers in the cold, and Q manages to keep it at bay, chasing it off of James long enough to dispel the risk of the body shutting down. Then, as the day wanes and darkness fills the cottage, they both slip into the slumber, easy consciences and still chilled bodies curled together under the blankets. Q’s phone trills at regular intervals in the night, an alarm waking him to add more logs into the fireplace. The fourth and final time, through the haze of sleep he notes James is warmer at last.

When he wakes next, daylight is in full glare and the logs are ash and weakly glinting embers, James’ breathing beautifully even, peaceful and steady. Q slips out of the lumpy bedding, the air’s chill instantly licking at his skin, and he hisses as his bare feet touch the floor while he slips on his jacket. The new logs crush the embers, and he blows on them a little before deciding to splash some more lighter fluid to help things along.

He’s just boiled some more water and poured it into a mug when he turns to see that James has stirred awake. Buried deep in the covers, he peers at Q, blue eyes once more shining and attentive, a slight flush of warmth spread over his cheeks, and Q lingers, because this is his. He caused it, his care caused James to now be snug and well warmed, contently curled under shoddy, itchy blankets and with a spark back in his eyes once again.

“Morning,” he says softly, and James hums quietly in response, coiling in a small wriggle under the blankets.

Q sets the hot water by the bed where it can wait and reach drinkable temperature. James sneaks out a hand and inquisitively brushes the back of it against Q’s nose, making a very soft sound in is throat when he inevitably feels how icy cold it is.

“Come here,” he asks, immeasurably tender and beseeching. “Come here, come here, come _here_ ,” he purrs, pulling Q in, into the warmed nest of covers and blankets, and Q welcomes the warmth.

Now that he’s thawed out, James is a furnace once again, and Q curls into it. It’s nice.

James wraps the blankets around them, making sure every bit of Q is covered and protected from the chill, and he tucks him close, shifting caringly to press as much of Q against himself as possible. He wriggles and rearranges and plants kisses all over Q’s cheeks, down his neck, over his shoulders, arms gathering him close. He makes small, quiet sounds of affection, thumbs stroking Q’s flesh where he holds him.

He’s thanking him, Q realises abruptly and with a pleasant ache in his heart. James is thanking him for keeping him warm, for doing his best, and now he’s returning the favour, cuddling him close and nosing lovingly at his neck and doing his best to give Q the warmth back.

Q gives into it and soaks it up, smiling a little with a quiet hum of appreciation, and he presses his icy nose into James’ neck.

They should get going and make it out of Russia, but in James’ exceedingly persuasive arms he figures they could stay a little longer - just enough to maybe doze a little, lie low for an hour or two more before sneaking out with the stolen memory stick safely in Q’s pocket.

“Hmmm... We should... mm... We should be going soon,” he says for the sake of duty, not one bit intending to follow through at the moment (James doesn’t need to know that).

Predictably, James’ embrace tightens around him very satisfyingly, and a particularly pleasant kiss is deposited on his cheekbone.

“I rather think we should stay a while. Make sure our trail’s gone cold. You know, just in case,” he’s playful, narrowing his eyes persuasively, and Q bites back the wide smile struggling to come out on his face.

“Just in case,” he agrees as seriously and magnanimously as he can manage.

James’ smile is honest and evokes an embarrassing flutter in Q’s heart, so Q presses his cold nose back into James’ neck, satisfied when James hisses a little in response.

They settle, finding just the right spot and just the right way to lie snuggled up together, but James is still occasionally nuzzling soft kisses against Q’s cheeks and lips, hands stroking softly under the covers. The cottage is still chilly, but they’re warm and snug together in the lumpy bed, under shoddy, itchy blankets, and it’s perfect. Neither of them moves to nudge the situation towards sex – the touches are intimate and lingering, but in an altogether different way, drowsy in morning sunlight. They’re both pleased with the moment as it is now.

Everything is bathed in a stark light, and when Q cranes his neck to look out the window, he can see a harshly blue, utterly cloudless sky outside - a sign of bone-shattering cold, the warmthless, white winter sun bouncing sharply off the snow all around and magnifying its icy brightness. The sky is the colour of James’ eyes when he blinks slowly at Q.

It feels nice, being safe from the elements - precariously and barely so, but it only makes it feel even nicer, and Q wriggles happily, luxuriating in the warmth of James’ familiar form pressed up against him.

The silence around them is soft and absolute, the cottage still with disuse and out in the empty vastness of Siberia, the air utterly unmoving in the winter frost, speared through by the sun. Q lets his eyes slip closed, allows his breathing to even out and subconsciously synch up with James’. The silence is pleasant, limiting their world to just this room and each other.

Time whispers by slowly in soft kisses and warm nuzzles, eyes occasionally fluttering open to trade fond looks but mostly remaining closed in the intimate proximity and half-doze.

A few hours later, awake for good, Q heroically gets up, swaddling himself in his jacket. He slips his feet into James’ boots, as they’re closer to the bed, and shuffles over to the kitchen corner to defrost and heat up a tin of stew while James stays and guards the bed, keeping it warm. They eat in bed. The stew is bland and tastes suspiciously unlike the beef it’s declared to be in Russian on the label, and James scowls and whinges and fusses as if he hadn’t had much worse in the past.

After they finish, Q somehow finds himself again burrowed in blankets and James’ warmth, and he decides they can stay another few hours. They weren’t supposed to make contact with MI6 until the next day anyway.

James is pleased, camped out in the bed, holding Q close, occasionally wriggling a little in the warmth, doling out kisses and affectionate touches. Not seeming particularly eager to get going.

Q plays with the short hair at the nape of James’ neck and narrows his eyes, scrutinising him.

“You’ve desert island fantasies, haven’t you,” he drawls after James very happily nuzzles his neck and pulls away a little bit to tangle their legs together, clearly relishing every moment under the itchy blankets.

James makes a sly face, like he’s going to charm Q into evading the subject, and Q narrows his eyes further, digging his blunt nails a little bit into James’ nape and giving a small scratch as realisation comes.

“You _do_ ,” he says. “Oh Christ, that’s why you always used to bugger off to paradise with your conquest _du jour_ at the end of a mission!” he says triumphantly, and James growls, trying to roll on top of him and pin him down, but Q scratches at his nape again, which as always has a mellowing effect.

“I do enjoy a holiday,” James says, smooth like a cat that just got knocked off a roof and pretends to have been planning on visiting the ground all along. “And I certainly wouldn’t object to having you all to myself somewhere quiet,” he grins, arms going around Q’s waist and pulling him flush against his front.

“Conveniently out of Six’s reach.”

“Naturally.”

“Desert islands are so hard to come by in the digital age,” Q tuts with mock regret.

“I’m sure we could think of something.”

“Well, naturally. Leave it to you to pilot a boat or a plane and shipwreck us mid-mission.”

James bites him on the shoulder.

“Well, you did just haul me ashore and take care of me...” he purrs. “Nursed me back to health, even. Found us a shelter and built a fire... I’d say we have quite a few desert island criteria.”

“Your hero, then, am I,” teases Q.

“Always,” the moment is playful, but the way James says the word is anything but. He’s still but not at all tense, blue eyes looking into Q’s openly and without hesitation or pretence. Unashamed. He does this, sometimes - throwing Q off by being so suddenly, directly sincere, admitting something deeply important to him.

There’s something prone about him, about the soft yet steady voice in which he says the word, like a vow or a declaration, and Q knows that James allows himself these vulnerable admissions, baring himself completely, because he trusts Q enough to do it. He trusts Q to save his life on missions, to look after him and to guide him, ready to follow on a leap of faith when Q tells him to jump and trust him that there’s a soft landing in sight. James trusts him to save him. (His hero, indeed – the thought is bright and boastful and almost makes Q blush.)

James blinks, eyes soft around the edges, like he’s marvelling at Q just a little bit and like he’s happy to be patient while Q thinks. He keeps just looking at him, and Q growls and kisses him into closing those blue, blue eyes, because really, the _cheek_ of it, catching him off guard like this. Delectable bastard. James laughs into the kiss and allows himself to be rolled onto his back, wrapping his arms around Q’s waist.

Q sprawls victoriously on top of him and tucks his head under James’ chin. And well, maybe James does have it right - it is pleasant, this seclusion from the world and the utter silence around them. Q doesn’t even miss technology all that much at this very moment, which should be _somewhat_ alarming, but Q is frankly too lazy and contently buried in their pocket of warmth to care.

Q settles and presses his nose into James’ neck again, even though he’s all warm now. James smells like travel and a hint of pleasant, clean sweat, and under that the still lingering scent of the river. It makes Q hum a little bit before he can stop it, eyes slipping closed again, and well.

Perhaps they can stay shipwrecked here just an hour longer.

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> So there. I'm rather happy with this one :) The 5+1 fic is still a go, just a little delayed.
> 
> Comments are love! :D


End file.
